Cecelia Ahern - The Year I Met You

You and me run after him.

‘Get your hands off me!’ she’s yelling at Monday, who’s ducking and diving to avoid her flying hands and punches.

‘Ouch! Jesus!’ he yells as she catches him a few times. ‘Relax!’ he shouts and she calms down and stops hitting him. She takes a step away from him, eyes him warily, her jaw working overtime like she’s a cow munching on grass.

‘It looks like you’ve got something under your jumper that might belong to my friend,’ Monday says.

‘No, I don’t.’

‘I think you do.’ He’s smiling, those hazel-green eyes alight.

‘I’m pregnant.’

‘Who’s the daddy? Apple? Dell?’ Monday says and I finally get a chance to see her stomach and bite my lip to try not to laugh. There is a rectangular-shaped lump beneath her jumper.

‘Hold on a minute,’ you suddenly say, under your breath. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t look.’

‘Why not?’ I ask.

‘Because maybe’ – you turn your back on the woman, who looks like she’s considering making a run for it, and you speak from the side of your mouth – ‘maybe she got it from Dr J. Know what I mean?’

‘You think she got a laptop-shaped container of drugs from Dr J?’ I ask, and Monday coughs to hide his laugh as you glare at him.

Dr Jameson appears, cup of tea on a saucer in his hand. ‘Yoo-hooo!’

‘Ah. The drug lord himself,’ Monday says conspiratorially, and I have to laugh.

The woman starts to waddle away quickly. Monday catches her, holds on to her arm while she shouts abuse at him and accuses him of sexually harassing and abusing her. Dr Jameson makes his way over to them, the cup of tea and saucer still in his hand.

‘Mags! I just went to make you a cup of tea. You’re leaving so soon?’

There’s tugging and messing going on between Monday and Mags, and suddenly something crashes down between her legs.

‘I think her waters broke,’ I say, as we all look down and see Dr Jameson’s laptop on the ground.

You, me and Dr Jameson are sitting at the table in your front garden watching Monday fixing the laptop, which has minor damage, and listening to Dr Jameson explaining the advertisement he has placed in the local newspaper. When I hear him explain, it is heartbreaking; he has placed an advert in the paper looking for companionship for Christmas Day.

‘Carol died when she was sixty-one – too young. Too young. We never had children; as you know, I couldn’t get my act together until it was too late. I’ll never forgive myself for that.’ His eyes are watery and his jaw works hard to control the emotion. Monday stops working on the laptop and focuses on him. ‘I’m eighty-one. That’s twenty years without her. Seventeen Christmases on my own. I used to go to my sister, but she passed away, God rest her soul. I didn’t want to go another Christmas Day on my own. I heard of a lad in my golf club who put an ad in the paper for a housekeeper – she and him are practically inseparable now. Not in that way, of course, but at least he has someone. Every day. Now, I don’t want someone every day, not necessarily, but I did think that perhaps for the one day when I can’t tolerate the loneliness, perhaps I could find companionship, somebody else who feels the same way as I do. There must be people who don’t want to be alone on Christmas Day.’

It is unimaginably sad and there is not one of us at the table who has a smart remark to make, or even tries to talk him out of it. The man is lonely, he wants company: let him find it.

I can see that this strikes a chord with you. Of course it does. Your wife has left you, taken your children with her, and if you don’t manage to win her over in some way, you face your first Christmas alone. Perhaps you won’t be physically alone, not like Dr Jameson; someone, a friend, will invite you over, but even amongst the company of friends you will probably feel more lonely than ever. I can see you mulling this over. Perhaps it will be you and Dr Jameson together, sitting at opposite ends of his polished mahogany dining table, making strained conversation, or better yet, with dinner plates on your lap, watching Christmas specials on TV.

Amy’s timing couldn’t be better. She arrives to collect the kids. As usual, she doesn’t get out of the car to talk to you, she remains inside, sunglasses on, looking ahead, waiting for the children to leap into the car. Fionn is beside her; he doesn’t acknowledge you either. You try to talk to her, she won’t open the door. Your continued knocking and pleading face leads her to lower the window ever so slightly. It is sad to watch. I don’t know what you’re saying to her, but it is not fluid. It is a disjointed attempt at you making conversation. Polite conversation with a woman you love. The kids come running down the driveway excitedly with bags in their hands. They give you a quick hug and as they’re climbing into the car they announce that they caught a heroin addict. Your face looks pained. The window shoots up. Amy speeds off.

I try to coax you into getting the letter so that I can have it in my possession, but it doesn’t work. You are most certainly too raw for that now. I formulate a plan. Operation Lemon Bowl will come to fruition as soon as your lights go out tonight.

24

I watch your house all night. I watch you like a hawk, more than I ever have before, which is saying something. I see you in your sitting room, lights on full as you watch the television. Some Sunday sports event, I can tell by the way you rise in your armchair in anticipation, then collapse back with disappointment. Each time you get up to move around the house I’m afraid you’re going to get the letter, but you don’t, you honour your word and I respect that about you, even though what I have done and what I’m about to do doesn’t command that respect. But you don’t know that.

Though I’m wired from the very idea of what I’m about to do, last night’s late hour and drinking is making it hard for me to keep my eyes open, to be alert. The headache pill makes me even sleepier and the five cups of coffee make me feel wired but an exhausted kind of sick at the same time. Finally, close to midnight, the living-room lights go off and I watch you head upstairs. I’m ready for action, but then the bedroom light goes on, stays on, as does the TV and I know I’m in for another long night. I nod off. At three a.m. I wake up, dressed, and look out to check your house. The lights are all out.

Action time.

The entire street is quiet, everyone is sound asleep, including Corporate Man, especially Corporate Man with his busy, important Monday morning ahead of him. I steal across the road and go straight to your front door with the original, now vodka-and-Coke-stained, letter and your keys from the lemon bowl. I have thought about the possibility of an alarm system, but in the entire eight months of watching you come and go, I have seen no evidence of one and surely a code would have come with the set of keys. I quietly push the key into the lock and it turns easily. I’m in. I take my shoes off and stand in the hallway, my eyes adjusting to the darkness while my heart hammers in my chest. I have not just entered a house willy-nilly, I have a plan, I have had all night to make a plan. And I have a torch.

I begin at the table in the hallway. There are envelopes on the counter, opened and unopened bills, and a postcard from Aunt Nellie who is having a ball in Malta. I check the drawer, no envelope.

I move to the kitchen, which is surprisingly in a tidy state. A few cups and plates in the sink that you’ve left until morning, but nothing offensive. Your fruit bowl has three black bananas and an under-ripe avocado. No letter. I take my time searching through the kitchen drawers. Everyone has a rubbish drawer in the kitchen and I find it: place mats, takeaway menus, batteries, bills, new and old, a TV licence, old birthday cards, pictures by the kids. No letter. There is a whiteboard with nothing on it, probably unused since Amy left the house. No notes, no reminders, shopping lists, no communication needed for a busy household because you are all alone. I suddenly feel for you, living alone in this empty family house that was once so full of life. I think of the man Amy left and I have no sympathy for him, he deserved it, but you, I feel for you. It spurs me on to find the letter.